


A Vigilant(e) Christmas

by terpsichorean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:36:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terpsichorean/pseuds/terpsichorean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or the one where Sherlock is a crime fighting badass, John gets kidnapped a lot, and they both manage to find some company for the holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Vigilant(e) Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this as part of a secret santa fandom exchange, and managed to write it all the day it was due. I finally decided to edit it and post it here. March isn't too late for Christmas fic, right?
> 
> Note the first: I imagined Sherlock's costume as some kind of full body suit complete with a blank mask (like the Question's mask), all in matte black. His distinctive coat is worn over this. Basically, it's a black morphsuit but more badass. 
> 
> Note the second: I have absolutely no medical knowledge besides what I learned in high school biology ages ago and what I see/read. So I just handwaved the medical stuff as I am too lazy to actually research it. Whoops.
> 
> Note the third: this can be read as either pre-slash or gen. To be honest, I was leaning toward pre-slash, but read it however you want. 
> 
> And now that my note is nearly as long as the fic, enjoy!

This, John thought, his wrists straining against his bonds, was getting  _really_  old. 

All he wanted was to go home after a long shift at the hospital, grab a bite and a cuppa, watch some crap telly, and get a good night’s sleep in preparation to do absolutely nothing tomorrow. Was that so much to ask? Especially at Christmas? But apparently evil never slept, which meant that John Watson didn’t either. 

Over the past year, he had learned the rhythm of these things. It usually happened when he was walking somewhere alone. He would be grabbed from behind and everything would go dark. He would wake an indeterminable time later, tied to something, and very occasionally gagged if his captors were feeling particularly adventurous. And then he would wait, sometimes getting to listen to his captors rant and rave, other times sitting in silence. The waiting was always the part with the most variety. But one thing about this train of events never changed, no matter how often it happened:  _he_  would always show up. 

He was known by a many different names. The Detective, the Masked Marauder, the Cluemaster, and That-Bloody-Fucking-Wanker-Is-At-It-Again-Jesus-Look-How-Backed-Up-Traffic-Is. Personally, John referred to him as Karmic Retribution for something awful he had done in a past life. 

Whether because of divine wrath or not, the masked vigilante of London had taken a special interest in John. Ever since the hostage situation at work last year where John had refused to stay where he was told and ended up helping the vigilante into the building and aided throughout the situation itself, he hadn’t had a moment of peace. The guy would randomly show up, inside his  _locked flat_ , and ask for his opinion on his current case. Other times he would interrupt John at work, disguised as patients (one time it was as a very tall, very attractive woman. That had been a confusing afternoon for John). There would be post-its with random comments and observations, usually patronizing comments about his office and life in general ( _I wouldn’t see that nurse again if I were you. She’s hoping to steal from you in order to pay some of her outstanding credit card debt. Please refresh your tea collection, I am growing tired of your obsession with Earl Grey_ ). Often something would be missing, usually most of his tea (John kept buying Earl Grey in the hopes that eventually the bastard would get his own bloody tea. The plan was so far unsuccessful). 

Word hadn’t taken long to spread. Soon, it was known all over London. If you had any need or reason to speak to the Masked Menace of London, John Watson was the man you wanted. Or wanted to kidnap, as the case often was. 

Because the bad guys had gotten the message too. If anyone in London or beyond had any kind of grudge against the Bastard in Black (and it seemed like most of the world did) they immediately came knocking on John’s door. 

Though considering how badly this usually went for his captors, it was wonder they still kept trying. John would sit tied to his chair, the Disguised Dementor would eventually burst in, knock out everyone in the room, and drag John home. You would think it would get demoralizing after the tenth time. Instead, it had gotten to the point where John could do this in his sleep. 

And, with the shattering of the window across from John, it looked it was time to reach the climax of this farce. 

Sure enough, there he was. Dressed in his usual body suit, including full face mask, the distinctive long coat completing the look, he landed on the floor, coming out of his roll into a crouch and already charging the nearest gunman. 

It was all over in about five minutes, the vigilante a whirling dervish of physical prowess. Every person standing in the room went down, thuds and wet snaps ringing through the room. John didn’t bother trying to keep track of what was going on, just waited for it all to be over. He swore he could hear his bed calling to him. 

Finally, the room was silent. Or mostly. 

John twisted his head, his brow already furrowing in concern. There were fingers on his bonds, brushing against his wrists. Soon enough, the ties were undone and John was free. He immediately twisted in his seat, coming face to face with the impassive black nothing where the Detective’s face should be. 

“You’re breathing too heavily, what’s wrong?”

For a moment, the vigilante said nothing, although his body seemed to tense. Then, just as abruptly, the tension leached away, and he seamlessly came out of his crouch, padding silently back towards the broken window. 

“Nothing’s wrong, John. We should get you home.”

John scowled, jumping out of his seat (Jesus his arse was sore, these guys always found the most uncomfortable chairs) and marching after him. “Yes there is. Don’t try to lie, I know you too well for that. Now, tell me - what the  _hell_?!” 

John leapt forward, tugging that ridiculous coat (he even popped the collar, what an  _idiot_ ) out of the way. Sure enough, there was a dark stain down the side of the body suit, only discernible in the glint of the street light through the window. It was definitely blood. 

The Detective pulled away quickly, wrapping his coat tightly around himself with a huff. “It’s nothing. Le-“

“The  _hell_  it’s nothing! You’re injured! You need to go to the hospital, get that treated!” 

Although John could see nothing under the mask, he knew that the other man was frowning. “No. No hospitals.” 

Well, that was fair enough. It was probably a bad idea for a vigilante the police were after as often as not to go to a hospital. They’d probably also want him to take his mask off, which obviously wasn’t going to happen. 

“Alright. Then you’re coming home with me. I’ll fix you up.”

The vigilante shook his head, taking a step back. John reached forward quickly, latching onto his wrist and pulling him towards the stairs leading down. “No, I won’t hear it. You are coming home with me and that’s final.” He tossed a glare over his shoulder. “Don’t make me knock you out, because I will.”

They stood in a stalemate for a minute. Then the Detective deflated with a heavy sigh and nodded sullenly. 

And that’s how John ended up with a masked outlaw as a Christmas guest. 

Fantastic. 

\--------------------

There are many things John never expected to happen to him, but did anyway. This was definitely one of them. 

The infamous masked vigilante of London was seated at John’s kitchen table, his mask rolled up far enough to sip dubiously at his tea. He immediately pursed his lips and put the cup down. 

“Why do you always insist on making nothing but Earl Grey?”

“Why do you always insist on drinking tea that isn’t yours?” 

Silence. Then an undignified slurp that somehow managed to sound sullen. 

John rolled his eyes and continued to unpack his doctor’s bag. “I need you to take your coat off. And as much of your suit thing as you can.”

“No.” A flat refusal. “I told you, I’m fine. There’s no need for all this drama.”

Oooh, that was it. “‘Drama’?  _This_  is not ‘drama’. ‘Drama’ is breaking into my office and stealing my clothes. ‘Drama’ is breaking into my  _flat_  and waking me up in the middle of the night to whine about how the criminals of London are too boring for your magnificent skills. ‘Drama’ is dressing in elaborate disguises just to see me at work. ‘Drama’ is getting me kidnapped all the time and then busting in to rescue me! Me trying to stop you from bleeding all over my table is not ‘ _drama_ ’!”

“So you would rather I didn’t rescue you?”

John stifled the urge to strangle him. “Not the point. You are bleeding. I am a doctor. See where I’m going with this?”

The Detective flopped back in his chair, folding his arms petulantly, an image which was ruined by his wince of pain.

“Yeah, that’s what I though. Now take that coat off or I cut it off you. Your choice.” John gesticulated with his scissors to get the point across. 

For a long minute, they glared at each other. Or at least, John assumed they were glaring at each other. He was definitely glaring, but it wasn’t like he could see the other man’s eyes was it? Maybe John was the only one glaring and the vigilante was looking into the middle distance, contemplating how best to knock John unconscious and leave. 

Well, whether or not they were both glaring, something seemed to change in the vigilante’s attitude. He slumped, the lines around his mouth deepening in pain. The ridiculous coat slipped from his shoulders smoothly, and gloved hands removed the utility belt and pulled up the body suit top, revealing the injury. 

It wasn’t as bad as John had feared. It looked like a knife wound, a gash rather than a stab. It also looked older, obviously happening earlier in the night. The bleeding might have actually stopped before he busted through that window, all the movement from the fight probably making it start up again. With a clean, some stitches, and a wrap, it should be fine. 

John turned back to his bag, grabbing the necessary equipment and placing it all on the table. Then he knelt at the vigilante’s side. 

“It doesn’t look too bad. I should have you patched up in no time. Would you like some pain killers before I start?” 

John wasn’t really surprised by the immediate head shake. “I’ll be fine.” 

John huffed. “Of course you will be.” He doused a swab in alcohol and began swabbing at the wound, ignoring the pained involuntary hiss from his patient. 

A comfortable silence fell over the kitchen, only broken when John put something down or picked something up. The vigilante was completely quiet, gritting his teeth against any sound that wanted to escape. Again, this was something John had never expected to happen in his life. Having someone like the Detective involved in his life was odd enough. Stitching him up in his kitchen was bordering on ludicrous. And speaking of ludicrous -

“I need to be able to call you something. I don’t need to know your real name, I’m not actually sure if I want to know it, but I need something. I cannot keep calling you one of those ludicrous names the press has made up. So give me a name or I’m calling you Irving.”

Another silence, though possibly more amused this time. 

“Alright, Irving it is. Pleased to meet you Irving, my name is John. How are you this fine Christmas Eve?”

A huffed breath, and John looked up quickly enough to see the smirk on those lips. 

“If you must call me something, call me S.” 

John paused in his work, then smiled himself before bending to his task again. “Well, it’s a start.” 

They subsided into silence again. But now that John had S (and how appropriate a moniker, short and to the point) actually responding to him, he was loathe to let the silence sit. But what to actually talk about? 

“So, uh, any plans for the holidays?” John winced. Oh dear lord, no wonder he never had a steady girlfriend, how had he made it through life being so incompetent? 

S stiffened. “Um.” A pause. “Nothing, really.” An awkward silence. 

“Not visiting family then? Dinner with someone special?” 

S shook his head. “No, nothing.” 

John cleared his throat. “Well, I know something else you won’t be doing tomorrow: going running around on rooftops. This isn’t bad, but you still need to give it time to heal. At least one day of rest.” 

S didn’t reply, seeming to have shut down completely. John sighed despondently, finishing wrapping the injury in gauze. You knew your life was pathetic when your only real friend was a vigilante you knew nothing about, not even his face or real name, who wouldn’t even talk to you about anything of importance. God, he really needed to get a social life again. It couldn’t be healthy to be this alone. 

“What about you?” 

For a second John didn’t know what S was talking about. “Hm?”

“Christmas, John. Do you have plans?” 

“Oh! Oh no, not really. I was thinking I might see my sister, but…it didn’t really work out.” John looked back down, fussing with the bandage in order to avoid eyes he could feel staring at him. In truth, Harry had called yesterday, blisteringly drunk, and told him Clara had left her again. They had fought, and John’s invitation to come over for Christmas brunch had been rescinded. Oh well, John could catch up on Doctor Who, maybe watch some of the more recent Bond movies. And takeout was always good, regardless of whether it was a national holiday or not. 

S hummed to himself, then fell silent. John finished with the bandage, standing and starting to put his equipment away. 

“Alright, you should be fine in about a week. But like I said, you need to be gentle with it for at least the next day. Just take tomorrow off. Stay home. Watch some telly. Read that book you never have time for. Just something other than crime fighting.” 

“Ugh,  _boring_. I honestly cannot think of anything I would want to do less than stay in and  _heal_.” The last word was almost spat, as if it was the most disgusting notion in the entire world. 

“Well, I guess you could always come here.” John resisted the urge to drop his head in his hands. He hadn’t really meant to say that. He couldn’t think of anything worse to say than  _that_.

It was obvious that S’s mind had ground to halt, thrown completely of track by John’s throwaway invitation. John immediately turned to the stove, randomly opening cupboards and pulling out ingredients to buy time. God, how desperate for company was he that he would invite a wanted man over for Christmas. Yes, this particular man had saved his life many times, but only after putting him in danger in the first place. And -

And John still didn’t understand it. Why he was chosen out of all the people in London. What was it about him that had made this mysterious man pause, made him come back, made him willing to risk life and injury to save him, over and over? It just didn’t make sense. And it definitely didn’t mean that John had any right to request his time. No matter how lonely he really was. 

“What would we do?” And again, John was yanked out his depressing self-pity by S’s low baritone. 

“Pardon?”

“What would we do tomorrow, if I did come?”

“Um.” Really? He was actually considering it? “I guess…watch telly, maybe, eat some takeout. Just…hang out, really. Talk.”

Silence. Then, “I’ll consider it.” 

“Really?” John couldn’t help it, it just burst out.

S nodded. Then he stood, pulling his coat back on. 

“Thank you for your help tonight. It was…helpful”

John stifled the urge to grin, and just nodded seriously back. No need to mock the man for his lack of social graces. 

S, apparently seeing his duty as done, nodded again in farewell, then left the flat, closing the door with a soft click. 

John sighed, slumping down into a chair. Well, this night couldn’t get an stranger. Got kidnapped, rescued by the city crime fighter, gave medical aid to a wanted man, and then inviting him over for Christmas drinks. 

“How is this your life?” He pillowed his head in his arms, determined to ignore the world for just a little while. 

\--------------------

John snorted awake, light from outside hitting him square in the eyes. He brought his head up and gave a groan of pain. Oh, he was not young enough to be sleeping at the kitchen table anymore. 

He stretched and rotated his neck, trying to work out the cricks. It was then that he noticed the steaming cup of tea in front of him. 

John stared for a second, before leaning over it and sniffing suspiciously. Smelled fine. Smelled quite good, actually. 

He lifted the cup, inhaling deeply before taking a hesitant sip. He sighed in satisfaction. Quite good, really, and very definitively not Earl Grey. He glanced back down and saw a small yellow post-it stuck to the top of the saucer. 

_I have done you the service of buying_

_you better tea than that horrible brand_

_you usually use. I expect some to be_

_steeping when I come by later._

_S._

John studied the note for a moment, feeling the dopey grin stretch across his face. Then he took another sip of the tea and settled further into his chair. 

“Merry bloody Christmas, John Watson.”


End file.
